Page 4 of Scarlet Chains
Terminal 2B. That’s where Radimir said her phone last pinged. But that was two hours ago— she could be anywhere by now. On a plane to God knows where, or worse, taken by someone who wanted to hurt her.
The speedometer climbs as I hit the highway toward the airport. Budapest’s lights blur past in streams of neon and shadow, but all I can think about is Ilona’s face the last time I saw her. Had she seemed worried? Scared? Was there something I missed?
If she’s running from me— if she’s figured out the truth about her father— then I might already be too late.
If someone has taken her because of what I am, what I’ve done, then I’ll burn this fucking city to the ground to get her back.
The airport exit looms ahead, and I take it fast enough to feel the BMW’s tires protest against the asphalt. Whatever I find there, whatever answers wait for me in that terminal, I’ll face them.
Because Ilona belongs with me, whether she realizes it or not.
And I don’t let go of what’s mine.
Chapter Two
Ilona
The car’s leather seat feels cold against my back, expensive material that should mean comfort but instead amplifies my terror.
Every bump in the road jolts through my spine, each one a reminder that I’m trapped, helpless, at the mercy of faceless men who murmur in the front seats beyond the partition. My wrists burn where the zip ties cut into my skin. The cotton stuffed in my mouth tastes like dust and sweat, making every breath feel stolen. But it’s the blindfold that terrifies me most— thick fabric that turns my world into nothing but sound and sensation and the wild hammering of my own heart.
Calm down, Ilona.
Think.
There has to be a way out of this.
Through the partition, fragments of conversation drift back to me. Words I can’t quite make out, but the tone is clear— impatient, agitated. One voice rises above the others: “…should have been easier…” Another responds with something harsh that makes the man beside me shift restlessly.
They’re arguing.
That’s good, right?
Distracted people make mistakes.
The man next to me— my silent guardian of terror— breathes through his mouth in wet, raspy pulls. I can smell cigarettes on his clothes, something metallic that makes my stomach clench. When he moves, his jacket rustles. When he’s still, the air feels thick with violent potential.
“…boss won’t like delays…” drifts through the partition, followed by more heated discussion. My blood turns to ice water.
Boss.
Are they talking about Osip? The man whose bed I’ve been sharing, whose child I’m carrying?
No.
Not Osip.
He wouldn’t do this to me.
But doubt creeps through my chest. How much do I really know about him? He owns a restaurant that materialized from nothing, drives cars worth more than most people’s houses, and sometimes his eyes go flat and empty in a way that makes my skin prickle with primitive warning.
Stop it.
You’re panicking.
Focus on getting out of here shomehow.
The car lurches suddenly, throwing me against the door. Brakes screech. Someone up front curses: “What the fuck is this?”
